


Bakes for My Dearest - A Good Omens Lockdown Story

by Elphen



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Bakes, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale gets burned, Aziraphale overthinks, Baking, Can't think of more tags, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Christmas Fluff, Christmas Lockdown, Christmas bakes, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Miracles, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Sweet Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sweet Crowley (Good Omens), Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), caretaking Crowley, hot oil, showing care through gifts, slight miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28289982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: The second lockdown is in effect. Due to a miscalculation on their part, Aziraphale and Crowley are separated again and the angel is stuck in his bookshop, on his own yet again. Without his demon, who he cannot help missing terribly.But he did acquire some new skills in the first lockdown and so what's an angel to do but try to fill the gap and use such skills to show his dearest demon he cares no matter where or when they are?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 34





	Bakes for My Dearest - A Good Omens Lockdown Story

**Author's Note:**

> Brilliant title, innit? Probably the least of my worries in all this, or even the summary. I had the idea at the start of the month and as usual it bloomed and blossomed on me. But I made it in time.  
> I know there's been more developments in the lockdowns and such, just...bear with me? Oh, and if you haven't seen the lockdown bit they made to celebrate the 30th anniversary...why not?

Aziraphale was in a bit of a conundrum. Well, more than a bit, really, and a conundrum made it sound quite…quaint, really. Something that you might associate with the newspaper crossword and a cup of tea.

Oh, a cup of tea sounded delightful right about – and that wasn’t the point of all this.

What was the point, then?

The point was that though the lockdown had been lifted once, it was back in effect, with the same result for both Aziraphale himself and for Crowley.

A further point or problem, rather, was that although the demon had said he would be sleeping until July – or had it been June? – he had in fact slept for far longer than that. All through September, as it happened. Which was, considering what had happened, probably the most sensible thing he could’ve done.

Still, it had meant that Aziraphale had been denied his company in even more months than he had intended, not to mention than the angel had been prepared for. The original window of time had been hard enough.

Of course, he was partly to blame for that, himself. It had been for the best, with all the good intentions and everything, breaking the rules and so on, but still, just because he knew himself to have been in the right on his decision didn’t mean it was any easier to live with or that he couldn’t blame himself for it.

‘See him when this was over’, indeed.

They ought to have had a whole month and a bit, though, seeing as the lockdown rules hadn’t come back into full effect until the beginning of November. Given that Crowley’s Mayfair flat was relatively close to Aziraphale’s own, within walking distance, in fact, it wasn’t even as though they couldn’t have made it.

So, why hadn’t they?

Or rather, why had they not stayed together? Why had Aziraphale allowed Crowley to go home, or back to his flat, and why had the demon wanted to? It wasn’t as though they’d been breaking any rules by seeing each other or even staying together after they had met up at that point, now was it?

But they’d thought they’d been through it and it was over. That there might be trouble and issues still, and rules that had to be followed, even if there were people who thought…differently, but that it wouldn’t get so far as another lockdown for the whole nation.

Admittedly, they weren’t always the best at keeping up with the current happenings but, even when Crowley’s phone had been consulted, it hadn’t looked as bad as all that.

Certainly, there was time yet.

Unfortunately, they somehow managed to miss not just when the second lockdown was to begin but that it would be nationwide, and so Crowley had gone home to pick a few things to bring back with him when it had all shut back down.

Aziraphale had deeply wished to be able to say it didn’t matter and Crowley should come back to the bookshop regardless, as quickly as possible, never mind all the things he didn’t have. They would manage as they had before.

Only, he could bring himself to do it. He was about to several times in the phone conversation they had the day it happened, and Crowley had to call the bookshop to let Aziraphale know. Or possibly it had been the angel who’d caught it on the radio by accident and had in haste called the demon. Things were oddly fuzzy on that point for him.

Whoever had called who, there had been the issue of what to do now, and Aziraphale truly had had to fight with himself and his tongue in order not to say something stupid. Something irresponsible and selfish.

It had been hard enough being without Crowley when they had been separated the first time the country, and the world, had gone into lockdown. Oh, they’d been apart before, of course, and for much longer. In comparison, even half a year was barely the most minute drop in the ocean.

However, that was different for a few reasons, chief of which was that they had never spent as much time together all at once as they had in the time after the Apocalypse had been averted.

Yes, he’d said he wasn’t miserable, and he’d meant it, too. Quite honestly, he had. That didn’t mean he was over the moon or that he didn’t miss the demon quite fervently in that time. If anything, it had only got worse as the lockdown had dragged on, especially after that phone conversation.

Especially knowing that Crowley was going to sleep, and he wouldn’t be able to contact him before he decided to wake back up, whether through an alarm clock’s ringing or under his own steam.

Alright, so perhaps he was just a little bit miserable when it came down to it and even more so now than he had been during the first lockdown.

He missed his demon fiercely. There was nothing wrong with that, was there? It had been so for so long that he would struggle tremendously to remember a time when he hadn’t, to some degree, even if it had been miniscule, missed Crowley and looked forward to seeing him.

Now it was December and the lockdown had still not been lifted.

December was the time when they had planned to go out for long walks and to have visits to those sweet little German markets that sometimes popped up at various places, get some mulled wine and some baked goods while they walked around and enjoyed the atmosphere.

They might enjoy it for different reasons, admittedly, but they would still be enjoying it.

That wasn’t all that they had planned, of course, and Aziraphale had planned even more, being perhaps a bit hopeful.

One of the things he’d hoped to do was bake. An awful lot of Christmas baking, in fact. There was just so much of it to try, and from all over the world as well. Especially from Europe, for obvious reasons but he wouldn’t say no to American, African or Asian recipes, either.

If anything, he would be delighted to try something he’d never had before. Within reason, of course. Some things he really thought you had to…grow up with to be able to appreciate fully, if at all.

It was just such a lot of fun and delight to see what you could create. Even when it went wrong, you could usually salvage something that would be worth eating. Or if you couldn’t, the results of when you got it right more than made up for it, in his opinion.

Which brought him to his conundrum, if not outright dilemma. The baking had gone down somewhat in frequency since he’d had Crowley back, his time simply taken up with other things. Plus there was the fact that the demon…wasn’t quite the fan of baked goods that Aziraphale was.

Of course, it could well be argued that few people were but even so, the point remained.

He wanted to bake for Crowley. To make him something lovely and delicious. It wasn’t as though he never ate, he was just more…selective with his eating than most.

That still didn’t put Aziraphale off from wanting to have Crowley eat what he’d baked, even though it could potentially mean that what he made wasn’t good enough.

On that particular score, however, the blond wasn’t too worried. Not because he was some kind of Prince of Pastry or Queen of Desserts – oh, that would be a lovely…ahem. But no, it had nothing to do with some more or less misplaced sense of brilliance on his part for the simple fact that he…

Well, he knew what it was supposed to taste like and even when he didn’t, he knew what quality tasted like. Some might call him a snob and perhaps that had some truth in it, but he thought that he was mostly only…discerning. After as many years on this earth as he’d had, they’d both had, you learned a little something about just about everything. And he cared about the quality.

So, if it was to his taste or at least, if he deemed it of acceptable quality, then he had every confidence Crowley would as well.

What was the problem, then? Well, you may well ask.

Whether you’d get an answer was something else entirely, of course. Though in this particular instance, you would.

The problem lay in whether Crowley would want him to and if he did – asking him outright would be no help and might even be counterproductive – how Aziraphale could get it to him.

There were couriers, of course, but…well, they weren’t to know he wasn’t a potential carrier of the disease and he wouldn’t put the poor workers through a concern like that.

He could miracle a mask on – he’d forgot to stock up before they’d gone back into lockdown, though he’d of course been wearing them only for the purpose of sending the right signal – but still, it was…even if he remembered, there was no telling whether they would or if Crowley would, either.

All in all, there were too many factors in play for him to risk it. If he did, that would at least somewhat make his earlier actions hypocritical.

However, he was telling a bit of a fib. Not an outright lie, mind, just…but while it was part of the problem, it wasn’t the largest or most immediate issue with all this. That would be whether Crowley would want him to but apart from that…no, other than that, since it was most definitely entwined with it, there was the issue of what kind of cake it ought to be.

It honestly shouldn’t be a great issue if an issue at all. Pick something that he knew to be good, make sure that it was baked to perfection, within the limits that he felt home baking should be subjected to, of course, and then have it sent over to Crowley. Job done, end of story.

All that would then be left to do was wait for the verdict, and that would be difficult enough on its own.

Not because Crowley wouldn’t be thoughtful and considerate, of course, whatever else he might claim. Just look at how he had refrained from going out and causing chaos of any kind when there was a prime opportunity for him to do so during the lockdown, whatever reason he might possibly give for it.

It wasn’t as though Aziraphale didn’t understand needing to mentally square it with yourself, now was it?

But no matter how he tackled it, putting yourself out there through what you’ve made was always difficult, especially to someone you cared about. When it was your most important person in the world, of course you would be intent on getting it right and a nervous wreck about how it would be received.

Crowley might not even realise it. Might not spot the significance or at least, that it was important to Aziraphale. To him, it might be just a cake. Which it was, admittedly, but it was more than that. At least, so the angel thought.

And that meant that he had to get it right. That he had to pick the right cake and bake it properly. If he baked the right cake, then he would stand a better chance of the demon seeing it…no, that wasn’t right. But if he baked the right cake, he would know he had got it right for his dearest.

Then he had given him the best that he possibly could, the best and most appropriate. The one that Crowley would enjoy the most.

So, there was his dilemma and conundrum. It had to be a cake of a sufficient quality, of a great enough interest to his demon, it had to be made by Aziraphale and he had to somehow get it to the demon without jeopardising anyone or being seen to jeopardise anyone. Not to mention he would like it to be something Christmas related.

But what should he choose? What would be right, be best? There were so many things he could make that it was enough to make his head spin.

Aziraphale sat back in his chair, blowing out a long, tired breath as he surveyed the chaos on his desk. A chaos consisting of cookery books of one sort or another, from just about every continent and from long before cookery books were something a famous chef, or a royal one, could make their fortune on cobbling together something that looked like a cookery book.

Oh, but the way that Soyer had absolutely tantalised your tastebuds at the Reform Club, had made them sit up and beg, was – and he had such a good soul on him, too. If ever there was a celebrity cook who’d done their bit for the less fortunate than…

And now was not the time for reminiscing, lovely though it was. Now was the time for finding the perfect recipe to try and then hopefully to perfect so he could gift it to Crowley.

It did bring up another point, however; there were over two centuries worth of cookery books, books that were buyable by the general public, that was, rather than made for only the very wealthiest.

Christmas was one of the most important times of the year, too, and it was one that everyone was keen to take part in, no matter how poor they might be. Which meant that recipes flourished like fungus in the garden.

So, to say there were a lot to choose from was not only underselling it severely but entirely missing the opportunity to use the word plethora.

There had to be a way to narrow it down. Well, of course there was. Now he was merely being silly, needlessly so. All he had to do was see which recipes would appeal to Crowley and…

And there was his first cliff to founder on.

What would Crowley like?

There was the traditional English Christmas cake – that it normally needed to be prepared months in advance to get the taste right was a minor, easily-sorted detail – but would that feel too stodgy for the demon? Rich, in terms of flavour and texture, was the word of the season when it came to baking.

Overload was a good descriptor, too.

It was an opportunity to show off and indulge, after all, two things of which humans had always been very fond indeed, even if they weren’t always aware of doing the former.

If he wanted something a bit lighter and airier, there was the panettone, of course, and, staying with Italy, there was the pandoro. Oh, those did sound…but did they sound so to Crowley as well?

Germany’s Stollen, of course, was a classic and perhaps the marzipan would be more…or would that be too sweet for him? It was quite the lump to bite into, after all, having that long sausage running through the cake. Perhaps something further afield? There was an Allahabadi cake to try out. Rum in a cake was rarely a bad thing and the demon was quite fond of his alcohol, in much the same way Aziraphale was of cake. And alcohol, come to that.

Of course, this was all provided that Crowley would want to have something as rich as all those. Even the lighter bakes tended to be quite…overwhelming in flavour.

Wasn’t that a good thing, though? Make it worth his time and such? After all, it was quite the severe disappointment to sit down for what had promised to be a sensory delight only to have to contend with something that might not be dry but for all the flavour it had, might as well be entirely dried out.

You could swing too far the other way, though, and positively flood a thing with flavour, making the different ingredients battle it out among themselves. Unfortunately, the battleground was your mouth.

He flipped through the pages of a few more books, to see whether there was something there that he’d missed. Something that would jump out of him and say ‘here I am, you’ve been searching for me and I am perfect for your purposes’ or something along those lines.

Perhaps it was better to provide something lighter? A cake that was considerably lighter and more summer-y despite what he’d like to give, to be sure to give him something he’d like to eat? Would it be preferable to have something older? Provide something that might be a, a nostalgic experience for him? Was that the way to go?

Oh, he didn’t know. He had no definite clues, either, and there was no avenue he could pursue to obtain them. Anything that he could think to try would put Crowley straight onto what Aziraphale was up to, he knew, and that would give him a chance to back off or decline.

To have Crowley decline his bakes would be bad enough but for him to do so without having even tried them was…

And he was speculating again. Projecting, honestly, neither of which would bring him any closer to the answer he sought or even be helpful in any other way, rendering it thoroughly useless and pointless.

Yet, it seemed impossible for him to stop it.

He took a deep sip of the mulled wine he’d set himself up with before he sat down, along with a few mince pies and a plate of, if he did say so himself, rather scrummy speculaas, in the hope that a bit of Christmas spirit and delights would help him keep his mood high. Perhaps they would even make it easier to choose.

That had been the thought, at any rate. It hadn’t quite worked out that way, of course, but that shouldn’t be allowed to take away from the fact that it all tasted quite marvellously, indeed.

Nothing wrong with a little bit of comfort either, now was there?

He drained the gold-rimmed glass which, by the time he put it back down on his desk, it was full to the brim.

What to do? He had to make some sort of decision, sooner or later. There was no way around it. Well, there was, quite obvious, but not if he were to go through with the decision he’d made.

It wouldn’t change anything if he didn’t but on the other hand, it wouldn’t change anything.

Aziraphale wanted Crowley to know he wasn’t only still in his thoughts throughout this but that if he could, they would be spending it together. The cake would be a way of apologising, a substitute and a loving gesture all at once.

That was why he couldn’t merely give it all up and just wait, again, for whenever this was over.

The fact that Crowley wouldn’t necessarily be doing something in return was a reality that saddened him but not too much. It wasn’t as though their relationship had to be a back-and-forth and most definitely wasn’t a one-to-one. If it ever edged even close to that, then…

But it wouldn’t. Even if you tried to quantify their relationship like that, which you honestly and truly couldn’t, then Crowley had over the years done so many things, both big and small, for Aziraphale that the angel could do things for his demon every week for the next hundred years and probably not come close.

No, that wasn’t an issue at all. Truly.

He’d got up from his chair and was doing a round through the shop, the shelves on either side and above him, full of books and other collected trinkets and curios, mostly what couldn’t fit in cabinets of one sort or another, his hands resting on top of each other on the small of his back.

It sometimes helped to bring his world back into focus and calm him down. Not that he was panicking or getting angry or anything. He was merely frustrated and a bit at wits’ end, on what to do, that was, so the movement among familiar and cherished old objects and friends, combined with the equally familiar gesture was a great comfort.

What to do, though. That really was the question. None of the options seemed the one true ideal for what he wanted to say, to accomplish. But he couldn’t bake all of them and send them.

Could he?

No, he could not. It was tempting but that would rather defeat the purpose, he felt.

However, there was nothing to say he couldn’t bake them all and then decide which one to go with once he had baked them all.

As for the rest…well, he could always keep one or two himself and then send them out, anonymously, somehow, to various people who might need something to cheer them up a bit.

His face lit up at the wonderful thought.

Yes! That was it. Exactly and precisely it.

That was what he would do, and it would turn out perfectly. The moment he had a selection of different cakes spread out before him it would be perfectly easy to pick which cake that he ought to send to Crowley. Then he could take the one or two for himself and everything could be sorted.

Perfect.

* * *

He did have to wait just a little bit for the ingredients to get here by courier, though, which put a bit of wait into the proceedings that he could well afford but wasn’t too keen on, nevertheless.

And while yes, there was still the issue of having someone come to the door to deliver goods, they didn’t have to interact with him to deliver at all, unlike him handing someone else a packet – he wasn’t going to let one of his bakes just sit out on the front step for anyone to nick before the courier showed up, thank you very much – and nobody tried to grab the box off the front step of the shop.

Once the box was in and the front door was quite firmly shut and locked, it was a pandemic, after all, and had been carried over to his impromptu but rapidly having become permanent little kitchen that was about half the size that was needed to do all the things that he’d done in it, at most.

Yet, as nobody had told the angel there wasn’t enough room to house all the units, the oven couldn’t hold three different things that needed to be baked at different temperatures and different times and that a proofing drawer couldn’t double as a fridge, it had all been sorted without a hitch.

He put the box down and then went over to the little shelf that housed his ‘baking dress’. It consisted of an apron, of course, even though he had yet to get a single smudge of flour, much less a dollop of cream or meringue and most definitely no bit of dough or cake mixture.

The apron was a pale blue, to match his shirt, but was lined with tartan all the way around, the belt even being tartan. There were even three pockets on it, two at hip level, properly deep for various debris, a spoon or perhaps a little snack or two, whereas the last was a breast pocket that spanned the entire chest, which was ever so handy for those little things that needed to be kept close.

That wasn’t all the outfit consisted of, however. Far from it. Instead, it was joined by oversleeves that were made entirely of tartan.

He always took his coat off when he baked, but he’d found that rather than having his sleeves rolled up, which could sometimes limit his movement, that the oversleeves did an excellent job of covering what might otherwise get dirty. Which was, quite simply, unacceptable.

To finish the outfit off was something which…he honestly hadn’t bothered with when he’d started to bake. After all, his hair was short and curly and away from his forehead, even when he bent forwards. The likelihood that any of it should come loose and find its way into anything he’d bake was small, at most, and non-existent otherwise.

At least, so he’d thought.

But apparently, the one part of his corporation that decided not to follow expectations nor commands was his hair. After not having shed a strand of hair while he’d been in the bookshop, it decided that it was the perfect time to let the occasional hair fall at the most inopportune of moments. Such as well when he’d baked his first bara brith, where it had stood out against a current, quite visibly.

It was lucky for him that he’d not served that to anyone but himself. Even so, to avoid that kind of embarrassment, he had taken to wearing a small soft headband. He had considered a snood or a hairnet but had decided the headband was easier and far more comfortable than either option.

Once or twice he’d forgotten to take the headband off after he’d finished baking for the moment and had walked around with the thing while sorting books or even reading. Thankfully, he had yet to do so while the shop was open, but he was nevertheless doing his best to remember to take it off once done.

Outfit well and truly donned and the base ingredients put out in front of him, he pondered which recipe he ought to bake first. Of course, with the plan in place, it didn’t matter much, if at all, but even so, he thought he had better be somewhat methodical about it all.

Just a little bit.

What to do first, then? They were all designed to have a bit of time to set and soak, for the best flavours – and there was no chance Crowley wouldn’t get the best that Aziraphale could possibly give him, no matter how many times he would have to make it to get it just right – so, while ideal, didn’t help in narrowing it all down.

Oh. He might do the panettone first. That had to hang upside down, that could be tricky. Though perhaps he shouldn’t start off with a tricky bake, so he got frustrated before he’d even properly began. That would hardly be helpful.

Stollen had seemed fairly straightforward, however, and he could use whatever marzipan might be left over from that to make little piglets.

Or perhaps, and he couldn’t help the chuckle that bordered on a giggle, he might try his hand at a marzipan Bentley.

Then it was decided. Stollen to begin with, then a panettone. Then…he would see.

Aziraphale couldn’t help beaming and almost clapped his hands together.

Oh, this was going to be simply marvellous through and through. He was so glad he had thought of the idea.

It might be that he couldn’t be together with Crowley right now or for the foreseeable future, even, but he could make him something to show that he was with him in his thoughts.

That he cared, no matter where they were or what was going on in the world.

* * *

He had worked his way through the stollen, which had come out quite a lot bigger than he had anticipated but it sure did look fantastic, especially when he dusted it with icing sugar. He’d even felt a little bold and made him sprigs of holly, complete with berries and had put two of them on the stollen.

Whether he ought to make one for the panettone, too, he’d been less sure of but had ultimately decided that he might as well. It was December, after all, and they did add to the festive cheer. A cheer which he’d shown off in quite a bit of decoration around the shop as well, something which he would’ve kept to the barest minimum, if not non-existence, in previous years.

Perhaps he was getting sentimental in his retirement, he didn’t know, and honestly, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. There was no one to answer to, and there was no risk that it would make his shop look more festive and inviting and bring more unwanted shoppers in, so why not?

It was classical music that came from the gramophone, however. There were limits as to what you had to endure, and he hadn’t developed a tolerance for bebop, even when it came to the Christmas versions.

Even when it came to your beloved partner. You weren’t obligated to like everything that they did. If Crowley wanted to have bebop, Christmas or not, blaring though his flat, then that was his choice and bless him for it. It would not, however, set foot inside Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Unless the demon took it into his head to play a joke on the angel, of course, but Aziraphale rather thought not. Not after what had happened the last time that he’d attempted to do something along those lines.

It hadn’t been the blond who’d regretted that the most.

The panettone itself was hanging upside down as it should, he had a Allahabadi in the oven, there were raisins, currants and sultanas soaking in various liquids all around him and he had decided to expand the repertoire a little from pure cakes to biscuits and breads as well. Those wouldn’t be for Crowley – he wasn’t the type to go around snacking, after all – and one might wonder why he bothered with it.

It was very simple, really; it gave him something to do while something proofed or baked in the oven. Of course, he could just take it easy and sit down to eat but he was having ever so much fun with the baking that the thought didn’t even cross his mind.

Besides, if he were going to spend who knew how long on his own, he would rather stock up with various treats that could continue to bring him cheer, perhaps all the way into the new year.

Maybe even longer.

But no, he wouldn’t spend time thinking about that. What would come would come and he would make the best of it that he could.

And the thought meant that he was now engaged in making something a little bit tricky while the saffron buns proofed. It required hot oil to dip them in to cook after they’d been cut out and wrangled into the correct shape.

While seemingly a little dangerous, what with the hot oil and everything, they had looked just too delicious not to try when he’d found them in an old recipe book. Chrusty, he believed they were called, though he’d found something similar that was called kukurini.

Well, things tended to get distributed out across the world as people moved and took their traditions with them, didn’t they?

He had yet to try one but the smell of them were simply wonderful, as was the look when they came out of the oil onto the cloth to let the excess oil drip off, and the smell of oil was thankfully not too overpowering, and it hadn’t been burnt or turned harsh, either.

When they were done, it would probably fit timewise with the Allahabadi cake and then the saffron buns could go in. While they were baking, he had half an idea to make another little thing he’d spotted in one of the books.

Marzipan potatoes, they were called, and they looked delicious but simple at the same time, which seemed absolutely perfect for the occasion. It wasn’t as though he didn’t have the marzipan for it. He’d got a very big and very tightly packed box with wares delivered and there had been more than enough marzipan for the stollen and the holly leaves and berries.

Not to mention the Bentley.

He might not have made the best car ever constructed in marzipan, but he’d made quite the handsome specimen, nevertheless, even if he did say so himself, without a single miracle, and it now sat gleaming at him at the edge of the counter. While he’d contemplated making a keepsake of it, to commemorate the day and the achievement, he’d in the end decided to give it to Crowley along with the cake. It was his car, after all.

That wasn’t to say Crowley would appreciate it or that he’d even notice, of course. For all Aziraphale knew, he might not take it out of the box, or he could gobble it up without seeing what it was.

Whatever the case, however, it was going to the demon’s and that was an end to it.

Things were going rather well all in all, he would say, without a single major mishap, which perhaps ought to worry him, and he couldn’t deny that he was enjoying himself immensely. So much so that he was tempted to dig further into the books to find some more recipes. Older recipes. Ones that he could remember from a century or two ago.

Some of them were still made, of course, but a lot of them weren’t, simply because of times changing. That or they weren’t made simply because of where they came from. Admittedly, being in London was a boon in terms of getting a greater variety than most, in all aspects of life and culture, even if you did sometimes have to search for it.

But even a metropolis like London, there were limits and he could admit to, as he’d gone through the recipe books, finding himself missing the taste of some of those delights from around the world and back in time. Oh, he had the memories, that was true enough, but nothing beat the physical sensation of them in your mouth and down your throat.

That wasn’t even touching all that he hadn’t managed to get to taste before it was no longer something people made.

It wasn’t just the Christmas themed, either, but something that had come up as a thought several times now across his baking odyssey. Was it too much to call it an odyssey? Oh, no matter, it wasn’t as though anyone would be there to call him out on it and he rather liked the sound of it.

Especially the implied duration of it. He wanted to go on baking for quite a while yet, whether there was a lockdown or not. Admittedly, he hadn’t baked too much in the time Crowley had been awake and with him but that had been because he’d been a little…preoccupied.

Once this lockdown was over and he could see his demon again, however, he would balance it between eating, reading and Crowley. Yes. That honestly sounded quite ideal for a way to spend the days.

For now, though, he could make trying out recipes of at least fifty years of age his project for January. One bake a day. No, scratch that. Make it two bakes a day where one was fifty years of age and another at least a hundred.

Yes. That sounded absolutely perfect, honestly. He almost couldn’t wait.

That wasn’t to say he was ready to give up the Christmas baking just yet. There was just so much he hadn’t tried and the more he looked into it, the more seemed to pop out for him to peruse and be delighted by, even before he’d had a chance to bake it, let alone taste it.

He almost forgot the reason he was baking these in the first place. Almost.

However, he did get so engrossed that he forgot time and place almost completely, lulled into a most wonderful rhythm of measuring, mixing, rolling, cutting, kneading and decorating, not to mention all the little things in between.

That wasn’t a problem, though. At least, it wasn’t until the front door was pushed against. Something which he didn’t register.

When the shop doorbell made its merry tinkle, however, he might not register it consciously but his brain step in to inform him that he had indeed heard that, and it was entirely real as well.

He stopped in what he was doing.

The front door was locked. He had made doubly and triply sure of that, to be a hundred percent certain he wouldn’t be interrupted by anyone, however small that risk was.

Not so small, as it turned out. But it shouldn’t have mattered, as the door ought to have stopped them in their tracks. Even the thieves he’d had inside the shop had broken the window in order to get in and there had been no tinkle of glass, only of the bell.

Which meant that the intruder had got in the normal way. Had somehow entirely bypassed the lock and other measures he’d put in since that attempted burglary, without breaking in in any way, which rather puzzled him.

A part of his brain, and a not inconsiderable part at that, rather perked up at the notion. Could it mean that –?

It didn’t have to be. Even if it was supernatural, there was no saying that it had to be…

Oh, no. Why would they even begin to…they were supposed to have retired. There was no need for them to contact them anymore. Either of them.

They had done what they had precisely so as not to, to be destroyed, and so they would leave them alone. For good.

Could it then be that they –? But it would be far too early for that. They couldn’t have regrouped and overcome…even if Beelzebub and Gabriel had seemed to get on rather surprisingly well that one time when…

Perhaps they weren’t ready but wanted to…but why would they come to warn them of that? Wouldn’t it be better if they were kept in the dark? It wasn’t as though they were ‘in the loop’, as he believed Crowley would phrase it.

What if they had –?

Dropping what he was doing, his thoughts scattering in his mounting panic, his potential elation vanished into thin air, he rushed towards the door with a speed that would’ve surprised anyone who knew him even a little bit. Unfortunately, he’d been in the process of dipping the first of a second batch chrusty knots into the oil – he’d decided, upon tasting one, that one batch simply would be entirely insufficient to last him very long, let alone for there to be enough to give away – when the doorbell had tinkled, and he’d stopped what he was doing.

Which meant that as he rushed, he not only dropped the ladle he’d used to dip them into the pot, which sent splashes of oil up into the air, he knocked the pot with his elbow. As the pot was rather full of oil, since he wasn’t sure just how much he would need and didn’t want to run out, it sent the oil sloshing from side to side.

Even more unfortunately, the movement back and forth was enough to, rather quickly, send it over the side of the pot. Quickly enough, in fact, that it hit Aziraphale in splotches over most of his arm.

Oil tends not to care much that you’ve got sleeves or even oversleeves on and though it wasn’t as bad as it would’ve been had it been bare skin, it still managed to burn. Then it went on burning as it soaked through.

“Oh, shoot!” Aziraphale exclaimed with strength and fervour, wincing and jerking his arm to him in reflex.

For a second, he was caught between the desire to make the pain stop immediately and the need to see who the intruder was and halt them in their tracks, with a dash of the shock, not to mention pain, of the experience freezing him in place thrown in for good measure.

In that second, too, he forgot that he could miracle the oil and pain away. Then again, he couldn’t even think about the stain it would cause.

The act of jerking his arm back and freezing up at the same time, while in a position of moving quickly, meant that his balance was off on top of everything and so he stumbled forward, on the verge of falling as the momentum carried him forward, past anything that he could grab hold of to keep himself upright.

Just as he was about to have an impromptu inspection of this floorboards, a hand touched his shoulder. Well, touched…it was accurate but failed to convey the strength that was inherent in it. The hand didn’t catch or grip, didn’t push or even pull. It just touched him, acting as a ledge that didn’t just halt his fall but actively stopped it.

Aziraphale, in his somewhat muddled state, didn’t register the air surrounding the person and therefore had a bit of a panic attack that in front of him was Gabriel or one of the other high-ranking angels.

Then the smell of demon hit him, and his panic spiked further because how had they found him? What were they going to do to him? Had they already done something to Crowley? Was that how they’d got hold of his whereabouts?

And here he’d been, worried about whether he was making the right _cake_ for his dearest. What an utter, blind fool he’d been to miss that completely.

A second hand came up to his other shoulder, even more carefully, effectively holding him upright as he lost his footing even further.

"Aziraphale?” a voice said, quietly but urgently. “Angel, come on, work with me here.”

Oh, no. Now he was hearing things as well. That had sounded like Crowley, at least somewhat, but how could it be? He wasn’t supposed to be here. If he was alright…if nothing had happened to him that Aziraphale could barely bear to think of, then he would be in Mayfair, still.

There was no way he could be in two places at once. Many talents he did have, but that was not one of them.

Whoever this impostor was, they really were too cruel to –

The hands on his shoulders gripped him as he sank onto his knees as they buckled underneath him. Then the hands shook him.

“Earth to Aziraphale, idiot Angel of the Eastern Gate, would you get a grip already!” the voice all but shouted and Aziraphale blinked, the scolding tone seeming fitting for an impostor angel, but it would also fit someone else. Furthermore, the word choice and the cadence could…

Nobody could get that right. That was only possible in that precise cadence by one person. Aziraphale himself would’ve struggled, even under the pressure of their trials, to get it that effortlessly right, or so he thought himself.

Someone else, who didn’t know the Snake of Eden as well as he did, had no chance of replicating it with any kind of accuracy.

Looking up confirmed what he thought; the hair, face and glasses might be imitable, but the expression was not, and he chided himself, if not outright scolded, for not realising sooner. For letting his fear and stupidity get the better of him like that and assume the worst without much evidence.

Still, the question, and it was a big question to say the least, remained of why Crowley was here. He couldn’t be here. At least, he shouldn’t be here. There was a lockdown in effect.

For all of that, Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to be angry or even cross at seeing his dearest here. Not even the fact that he would be seeing what was meant to be a surprise for him was enough to set him off, or that he’d startled Aziraphale, if you could call it that, enough to make him burn himself. Burn himself on hot oil, as well.

He wasn’t happy about either of those facts, of course, it wasn’t that. They just couldn’t hold a candle to getting to see Crowley again and in the light of that, they didn’t seem nearly as bad as they ought to.

“Crowley!” he exclaimed as he looked up at him, and he couldn’t have kept the delight out of his voice if he tried, not that he did or would. Nor the surprise or relief. “What in Heaven’s name are you doing here?”

Still, there was some things that needed explanation. He ought to have phrased that better, however. A whole lot better, in fact, and cushioned it with something along the lines of how wonderful it was to see him again. That might undercut the message that they were supposed to stay apart, but even so, the comment as was was…

Before he could apologise or rephrase his words, however, he was distracted by Crowley…well, he would’ve loved to say his expression but honestly, it was more the way he pulled and tugged at his shirt sleeve and oversleeve.

As though gratified to be finally acknowledged again, the burn flared up with quite the vengeance and Aziraphale winced again. Oh, that _hurt._

The thought ‘and there is my shirt ruined as well’ flitted through his head. He took good care of his clothes and now, in the span of less than a few years, even shorter, stains had ruined them twice. Admittedly, Crowley had fixed it that first time but that didn’t alter the fact that it had been quite definitely ruined to start with.

He opened his mouth, though whether to complain about the ruined shirt or voice the hurt, he wasn’t sure. All that got out in any case, was a startled noise, much to his embarrassment, when his oversleeves and shirt were both gone, along with his bowtie, though his waistcoat remained intact and on his person.

If it hadn’t, he…well, embarrassed probably wouldn’t begin to cut it. Not that he was ashamed, mind, but this was still his shop. There were theoretically people who could look in and he could really do without having either a whole lot of people out there ogling or the police attempting to come in.

It was honestly such a hassle to get them out again and he wasn’t keen on having to go through that at all.

“Crowley!” he exclaimed. Without meaning to. He had to admit that there was sense in removing the soaked garments, he just hadn’t expected it to be…this removed, as it were.

“On your chair, don’t worry,” was the only reply he got, which was…well, it was helpful and yet, it somehow managed to also entirely miss the point.

Aziraphale was distracted from pointing this out by a hand coming up to touch his arm. Touch where the largest amount of oil had spilled, fact, and consequently, where the burn was worst.

He winced instinctively then paused, halfway through the wince, the expression transforming into a little ‘o’ of surprise. Where there had been pain and that peculiar almost cold throbbing of a burn, another kind of cold was slowly but surely stealing over his arm. One which soothed and, it seemed to him, healed as it went.

The thought was born out when he looked down at his arm and saw the affected skin…not quite fading and not quite peeling away like a slip of dry skin you pick at. It was disappearing, though, and it was taking the pain with it, as if it had never been.

He then looked up at Crowley, whose brow was knitted in concentration.

Which honestly was just a little bit odd. It was a fairly simple miracle, or it ought to be, and even though it was fire, it wasn’t as if it was Hellfire or anything. Goodness, Aziraphale could’ve done it himself, if he’d kept his wits about him instead of panicking and freezing up.

“Crowley…” he said, quietly.

If his intent had been to get the demon to stop, he singularly failed to achieve that. Crowley didn’t even make a noise to acknowledge him. Pulling his arm back, or attempting to, achieved much the same result, with the addition of the other pulling it even closer to him.

Once close, the ginger examined it, turning it this way and that as though to look for more indicators of burning.

“I believe you have found all of them,” he said, much more softly. “It no longer hurts in any way, I assure you. Thank you very much indeed.”

At that, Crowley finally met his eyes. For a given value, of course, but even so. Their eyes did meet and for a long, long moment they merely sat there, staring at each other. Drinking each other in, in a sense, as though to reassure themselves that the other was in fact there, physically and truly. The touch of hand to arm helped, too, of course, but still, it was hard to believe. Partly because this was so unexpected.

Speaking of which –

“Crowley, why are you here?” Aziraphale asked again, far more gently than the first time.

However, the answer he got wasn’t really an answer at all. At least not to that.

"Good job that I was.”

"If you hadn’t come in here without warning or greeting, then I wouldn’t have been shocked and got into a…got worried enough that I rushed for the door, which was why I hit the pot – oh, the pot!”

It was still full of hot oil, after all, and goodness knew what else he’d caused by knocking it with his elbow. Oh, dear, no, and he’d had cakes set to cool nearby, too, because when there weren’t all that much space, you had to get creative and efficient with what there were.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Crowley, with an air of decision and finality that puzzled and very lightly annoyed Aziraphale.

How can you say that?” he all but demanded. “There’s no knowing just how much devastation it might’ve caused and that is without wasting time – “

“You aren’t.”

"Yes, I – “Aziraphale stopped speaking. There was something about Crowley’s phrasing…

He looked around him. Nothing looked out of the ordinary although there was a familiar, if not often felt tang to the air. It was only when he saw the droplets in the air that he had definite confirmation, however.

Oh. Of course.

For that? Crowley had employed…for that?

_For you. He’s done it for you. Probably so that you wouldn’t be in danger of more droplets. Or other debris – look over there._

Aziraphale did, properly, and rather wished that he hadn’t. That was not something you liked to contemplate, not when you had only the one corporation to work with and no chance of getting a new one.

How very human, really. Even if they weren’t susceptible to all the ills of a human corporation otherwise.

“Oh.” It was a trite, almost meaningless little filler of a word but it was the best he could think of in the circumstances, and it also summed up his feelings at the moment relatively well, to boot.

“Come on,” Crowley said, tugging at him, firmly but without being forceful or demanding. “Up you get.”

He got them both upright in almost one smooth go then, once he’d checked that Aziraphale was steady and that his arm really was alright, he walked off.

For one stupid second, Aziraphale’s heart sank, worried that the other had changed his mind and was leaving the shop altogether. Then, thankfully, his brain kicked in, and it kicked rather hard, at that, to inform him that he was being silly. Crowley wasn’t walking anywhere close to that direction, and even if he were, he wouldn’t leave like that.

Aziraphale knew better than that.

Sure enough, Crowley didn’t walk back out of the shop but over to where…where he’d deposited Aziraphale’s shirt, it seemed. He picked it up and, as the blond walked towards him, peered at it closely.

“I suppose that it was too much to hope, much less expect, that I could keep it stainless or otherwise free of marks in perpetuity,” Aziraphale said, trying to make light of the situation as best he could. “Still, it would’ve been nice to have been able to reach just a little longer…I also cannot seem to decide whether the fact that I myself was the culprit this time makes it better or worse.”

He did his best to smile, only to startle a little at having the piece of clothing more or less thrust into his vision.

Specifically, the sleeve of the shirt.

Which was entirely free of stains of any kind but in particular free of any oily drops and see-through patches. As though they had never existed.

Just like before.

Images of the front of a manor house, of the man firing at them and of the blue stark against the soft cream beige of his coat flashed through his mind. Of the blue melting into nothing by a single blow of air from a certain demon.

“Oh,” he said again, taking the garment carefully, as if it might break apart from being handled too roughly. His fingers and eyes examined it, despite what he’d seen, but there truly was nothing at all. “Oh.”

Only then did he remember to follow that with a ‘thank you’.

“You need me to turn my back?” asked Crowley.

He was being rather…utilitarian and practical in his questions and answers, wasn’t he? Why? Was something the matter? Had he come to warn him…or had something else happened?

Aziraphale hadn’t offended him, had he? How, he wouldn’t know, but he could have without knowing it. If he had, he needed to know so that he could remedy it immediately.

Of course, that didn’t quite tally with the care he’d shown, not just the angel himself but his clothes, but they didn’t have to tally, necessarily. Did they?

Oh, he didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to clear it up. Asking outright wouldn’t necessarily be a good idea, as it could make Crowley clam up instead of being open with him.

“Pardon? Oh, no, that’s – unless you’d prefer not to be…?” he said.

“What? Nah, I’m good.”

“Right. Of course.”

Turning back to check that time still wasn’t passing and that he didn’t need to worry about the cakes in the oven just yet, Aziraphale unbuttoned his waistcoat as quickly and nimbly as he could, which wasn’t saying much, shrugged it off and was about to lay it over the nearest piece of furniture when Crowley took it from his hands.

He kept hold of it while the angel, still working as deftly as possible, put the shirt on, buttoned it and tucked it into his trousers. For all that he’d worn the clothes for nigh on two centuries, he wasn’t particularly used to having to don or take it off or any other clothes, and it showed.

When Aziraphale reached to take the waistcoat back, Crowley didn’t give it to him. Instead, he held it out as you would with a coat for someone else to slip into.

If the angel wasn’t confused before, he certainly was now, and the demon’s demeanour didn’t do anything to diminish that, unfortunately.

Once the waistcoat had been rebuttoned as well and adjusted, Aziraphale turned back to look at the other, in an attempt to get a better understanding of what was going on.

When he gave himself a chance to properly look at him, Crowley looked oddly…drained. Oh, not as though he’d been running himself ragged or there was something eating away at him, taking his strength. It was more…the drain of someone where something’s been off for a while and they’d had to suffer through it whether they wanted to or not.

Aziraphale recognised it that clearly mainly because it was an expression he’d identified on his own face and body over the course of the lockdown. Both lockdowns.

He stared at the other, unsure of what to do and what to think. Crowley didn’t move either, which caught them in a strange sort of limbo and the blond could well believe that time was stopped now, as everything felt caught in amber.

Then, acting on a sudden and probably unwise impulse, he shot himself forward, closing the little distance between them as he wrapped his arms around the lanky figure.

Crowley clearly wasn’t prepared for it; he staggered just a little bit and made a noise that was almost a startled squawk except it had an element of hiss to it as well. Before Aziraphale could try to pull away, however, he caught himself, both physically and mentally, it seemed, as he regained his footing and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale in turn.

“I missed you, my dear,” the angel whispered. “So very much.”

Saying it out loud, directly and clearly if quietly, rather than implying it through looks, gestures or even allusions and implications was something that wasn’t just new and novel, it pushed at his boundaries more than expected and he felt open and vulnerable, far more than he would’ve expected to.

It almost made him pull out of the embrace and find somewhere to hide behind. Only almost, though, and when Crowley’s arms tightened around him, the feeling was lessened. Then the ginger spoke.

“Missed you, too, angel,” he said, with a strength and a confidence that made the vulnerability disappear. Almost completely, at least. “Couldn’t stand it anymore.”

The crack at the end of the sentence dispelled whatever strangling threads remained.

“Even with a lockdown?” the blond asked, pulling back, but only a little so he could look the other in the eye.

“Hang the bloody lockdown,” Crowley said, with unexpected vehemence. “Once was bad enough, even while sleeping through some of it, and now they’re talking about mutations and what have you. If I had to wait for that to blow over, too, on top of everything else, I’d – “

He cut himself off with a grimace that somehow quite eloquently managed to communicate everything he wasn’t in fact saying. Of course, the way his arms tightened further was a definite help, too.

Then why didn’t you say anything?” Aziraphale asked, still puzzled and worried. “I had not as much as an inkling that you were coming over, hence…but you could’ve called then I could’ve made everything ready for you.”

The sofa perhaps wasn’t ideal for Crowley to snooze on for longer periods of time – even if he took a month long or longer nap, it would be so much more bearable when he was inside the bookshop rather than away from Aziraphale – but with a few pillows and blankets and a slight tweaking here and there, it could be rather cosy and lovely.

Aziraphale might even sit down and read the other to sleep. There was bound to be one or two books at the very least that Crowley would be alright with hearing the story of. He did like a good story, even if he wasn’t keen on reading, and though he didn’t much want to admit to it out loud.

Oh, yes, that would be quite simply marvellous.

Crowley frowned at him. “Ready? What do you mean, ‘ready’?”

Well, if you’re to stay here for the duration, then it seems only sensible to have made the shop a little more inhabitable for you.” Aziraphale said. He was hardly being unreasonable. Quite the opposite, in fact, so he didn’t really understand the question or the expression.

The frown only deepened. “What’s uninhabitable about it now? I’ve never in all the time I’ve been here thought it ‘uninhabitable’.”

Part of Aziraphale couldn’t help but flush a little at that comment, even with the mocking lilt to the last word, while another part equally couldn’t help preening at it.

“But you’ve…that has been only for shorter visits, not longer stays.” For obvious reasons, yes, but even so. His mind hit something at that, and he faltered a little. “Unless, of course, you were only stopping by for the afternoon.”

Which was fine. More than fine, really. It would be, at any rate. There was nothing to say that Crowley had to stay for longer than a normal visit, just because there was a lockdown on, still, or even because Aziraphale wanted him to. Especially not the latter.

He gave as good a smile as he could. It was beyond good to see his dearest, no matter for how long it would last – and it would mean that he could give him the…well, he could present him with what cakes he’d managed to make and see if there were any of those that he wanted to have. If there wasn’t…

Perhaps, at least, then Aziraphale could ask him directly what kind of cake he would like. It wasn’t the most…subtle of approaches, to put it mildly, and he would’ve liked to do it differently, but he would take this, as well. Of course he would.

It would still be an opportunity to show his dear demon what he meant to him. That he was in his thoughts and he cared about and for him, regardless of whether he was close or far, either physically or otherwise. How could he even think to pass that up?

Crowley gave him a look that was half utter disbelief, half long-suffering patience.

“Now you’re trying to get me annoyed, aren’t you?” he almost growled. “Do you think I’d come here after, after staying away for so long when I bloody well didn’t want to, only to bugger off after a bout of high tea or something?”

“Well, it could be that you merely wanted to check – “protested Aziraphale, though his heart wasn’t in it. It was instead preoccupied with slowly but steadily swelling in his chest, dancing as best it could while it did so.

His protest therefore died on his lips when he got a glare for his troubles, visible despite the sunglasses. Then the demon ducked his head a little and stared at anything but the angel. His grip on the stouter, softer body didn’t loosen in the slightest, however.

“Hadn’t heard from you since…and I just couldn’t stand it anymore, alright?” he said, somehow managing to snap and mutter at the same time.

His head shot back up at that and Aziraphale knew that the serpentine eyes were narrowed as they fixed on him. “So if you think you can get rid of me that easily, you’ve got another thing coming. I’ll – I’ll ransom your ‘Hamlet’ folio first.”

“You wouldn’t.” It was mostly the absurdity of the exclamation that kept the blond relatively calm about such a threat.

What he did react to was much more that Crowley would use such a threat as that at all, and then to have it be to allow him to stay, of all things. He stared, eyes wide enough to protest the treatment.

Honestly, that his heart hadn’t exploded at that realisation was a miracle in itself.

“I will if I have to.” The ginger raised his chin, as though in careless yet determined defiance.

“Oh, Crowley, you – “As he had honestly no idea of how to finish that sentence right now let alone continue, Aziraphale instead allowed himself to pull the other as close to him as he could, from head to toe, enjoying the nearness of him for the moment they had.

He had no idea when or even whether he would get to experience this again, so he might as well make the most out of the moment.

Wonderfully, Crowley not only didn’t seem to mind, but he actively pressed into every point of contact in turn. Then he went a small step further and buried his face in the top of the angel’s head, right into the thick softness of the whitish blond curls.

Which was even whiter than usual because there were not an insignificant amount of flour stuck in it.

How was it that there was almost no flour on the apron or the oversleeves but there were in his hair and he was sure there was or had been on his face as well.

Crowley, however, made no comment if there was any flour, just took a deep breath that thankfully didn’t end in a coughing fit or similar.

Instead, Aziraphale thought he heard him say something along the lines of ‘always wanted to do this’ but as the voice was muffled by hair, it could be something else entirely.

What the ginger did say when he pulled back after a too short eternity was, “You’re stuck with me now, angel, whether you like it or not.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help the soft, impossibly warm smile that bloomed on his face if he’d tried. Not that he did try, mind, not in the slightest.

“Stuck implies that it’s something that you would want to be rid of but cannot for one reason or another,” the angel said, his smile widening as he reached up to brush a bit of white out of the fiery hair.

An image of Crowley’s beautiful hair with the streaks of white born of age flashed through his mind and was gone with a speed as if it were well aware of the transgression it had caused and wanted out of there as quickly as possible.

“Which I assure you is not the case,” he continued, shaking the image out of his memory. “Never was the case, either. I would be delighted if you would stay here for the rest of the duration, my dear.”

“What about all the ‘there’s a lockdown on, we can’t’?” Crowley asked and though Aziraphale winced just a little, inwardly, at that, he couldn’t deny it was a perfectly reasonable question.

“Surely, I’m allowed to realise an error and then, when the opportunity presents itself, that – “

“You mean when I take matters into my own hands?”

“Yes, quite. But I am delighted that you did and only could’ve wished that I weren’t unprepared and therefore convinced that something must’ve happened.”

“Happened? What do you mean, ‘happened’?”

“I thought that it might be…” Instead of saying the name, he lifted his gaze and eyebrows skywards for a moment. “Or possibly even…” His gaze went down, then, and lifted.

Crowley’s frown became…well, honestly, it was still a frown, but it was one of understanding and concern rather than confusion and suspicion. Apology, too.

“Shit, I didn’t even begin to _think_ – “

“It’s quite alright,” Aziraphale tried to soothe, “I only – “

“It’s not! Fuck, angel, no wonder you ran if you thought that – have they been around before?” They didn’t need to mention ‘since That Saturday’.

“I would’ve called you if they had, I promise. Nothing’s happened, that’ the main thing. Well, nearly.” He allowed just a soupcon of a smirk to grace his lips at that. He felt he deserved it.

“It’ll get stuck that way – oh, wait, it already has.”

“Oh, ha, ha. Very funny.”

“Not particularly.” Despite his words, Crowley was just about smirking as well. That became a grin when the blond pouted and sniffed.

“Well, then. If that’s how it is, then I suppose I should keep it all to myself.” He didn’t mean that, of course, not really, but the demon didn’t need to know that.

“All? All what?”

“What do you think I was doing with a pot full of oil? Just playing around with it for the sake of it?”

Crowley levelled him a look, going so far as to look over the rim of his glasses. “It would not be the strangest thing you’ve eaten while I’ve known you. Or made me eat, for that matter.”

The blond somehow managed to sniff harder. “I’ll have you know that those herrings are considered a specialty of the country and quite a delicacy in their own right.”

“Aziraphale, they were _vile._ And I say that as a former denizen of Hell.”

“Perhaps they were an acquired taste,” Aziraphale conceded, to keep the good atmosphere. That and…well, they had been just a little bit peculiar, he had to admit. “But still, to think that I would do something like eat oil – and you are pulling my leg.”

“Finally, he catches on.” The hint of a smirk was somehow stronger than the proper smirk from before, as though to say that it didn’t need any more than that. “So, what were you making?”

“I’m not sure you deserve to know, after all that.” His tongue smarted from where he’d bit it in order to not break character and tell him immediately. Honestly, he’d kept up a front for years, he ought to be better at a few minutes of it.

"You know I can just go over and see for myself, right? It’s only around the corner of the bookshelf.”

"That’s hardly the point.”

It was Crowley’s turn to pout, though it was a tad too theatrical to work as intended. Possibly, intended, at least, since a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Pretty please, angel, tell me? I promise I’ll be…behave.”

Aziraphale pretended to consider it, though he could feel a smile tugging in turn. He did catch that slight hiccup there and wondered…but perhaps that was for a later time.

“That’s all well and good, my fine serpent. But can I trust you to keep your word?”

“With the right incentive, I won’t be tempted to break it.” There was just the hint of a hiss to ‘incentive’.

“Well, then, I suppose I will just have to make sure I provide that incentive, won’t I?” Aziraphale said, the smile breaking through in full.

Oh, how he had missed this. All of it. Even the triumphant, affectionately mocking smirk he got at that. As he always did whenever he had to be without his demon but especially now when he’d experienced what it was like to have Crowley with him for longer than a few hours or a day or two.

He’d slipped in long ago and now, he was a part of Aziraphale, just as much as his wings were. Without him, he wasn’t quite whole anymore, if he ever was.

The angel wasn’t sure he had the courage to say that out loud to the other’s face. At least not yet. He would get there in time, though.

That was a promise. A vow.

One which hopefully could be honoured soon enough. It wasn’t as though he wouldn’t have the opportunity for it now, was it?

I think that’s a very wise decision, angel.” Despite his words, Crowley showed no immediate inclination towards moving. Not until Aziraphale tried to move, at least. Then he was moving as though his dinner had caught on –

The cake!

Forgetting everything else for the moment, including the time it was supposed to come out and Crowley’s little tricks, Aziraphale overtook the lanky demon to get to the kitchen first, ignoring the questioning and slightly worried look he got as his mind filled with the image of the oven setting something on fire.

Setting his books on fire.

Once was more than enough, thank you ever so much, and it was entirely irrelevant that an eleven-year-old Antichrist had restored it to its former self. More or less, at any rate. The additions were…

The point, however, was that such a thing wouldn’t happen a second time and he wasn’t about to see his bookshop burnt to the ground.

Oh, why had he thought it a good idea to start baking?

He got to the small kitchen before Crowley did and, though there were neither flames nor smoke, yanked the oven door open to –

Find that no heat blasted from the oven, let alone steam. In fact, it was rather cool, as though it hadn’t been turned on at all.

But that couldn’t be true. He’d been baking all day and he knew he hadn’t remembered to turn off the oven when he’d been scalded with the oil. So how on earth had it got as cold as this?

Puzzled, to say the least, he reached in and pulled out the cake, to see how raw it was. Only to discover that it was neither burnt nor raw. In fact, though he was hardly any expert in baking things yet, he’d say that it was just about done.

Who? What? How?

“Thought you might not want that to burn,” came a voice from beside him as Crowley looked over his shoulder. “Looks good, that. Smells good, too. What is it?”

Aziraphale would have to concede the point. Both points. “Allahabadi cake. It’s an Indian take on a Christmas cake.”

“Right.”

Something about that earlier comment didn’t quite – “Wait just a moment. You thought that – how did you know about that in the first place?”

“What, you think I couldn’t smell all the bakes in here?”

The fact that they were arguing, if such it could even be called, while they both looked at the cake still rather than each other made it feels at once a little strange and rather…domestic, which in turn felt even stranger. Yet fitting.

“It’s practically wafting out of the shop, Aziraphale, and once in here, it’s practically all you can smell. Don’t tell me you’ve gone anosmic in your old age.”

Old age, the very idea! Only, Crowley did have a point, didn’t he? Not about the age, mind. He wasn’t even sure angels or demons could be said to have an age.

"I have merely been focused on the making rather than the smell of – what are you doing?”

"What does it look like?” The demon finished taking a pinch of the edge, which was almost a slice in its own right, and popped it into his mouth. “Mmh. That’s good. You didn’t tell me you’d become this good at baking.”

Aziraphale stared at him from the side, feeling more than a little wrong-footed all of a sudden.

But that was – he had been sure – and now he – since when were Crowley – he’d never been at all –

“Aziraphale? Oi, stay with me here. Come on.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere.” It came out defensive rather than indignant, he felt.

“In your head, you just did. Where did you wander off to in there?” Crowley’s expression was one of concern. “You alright?”

“Fine. Yes. Fine. I suppose I’m just…a little tired.” He sounded it, too, now that he listened for it.

“Not surprised, with this lot,” Crowley said, looking around them. “You baked all of this on your own?”

“Yes, of course I did,” said the blond, indignance helping to revive him a little. “There’s a lockdown, you cannot just go and buy things.”

“But you could have them brought, though I suppose you’d have a problem with putting all the couriers in danger.”

Crowley took another look around him, gaze evidently taking in just how much and how many different baked goods were crowding the already limited kitchen space as well as the immediate shelves around it. The angel had needed places to cool his various makes.

“Who exactly were you expecting, angel? The whole choir pedantic?”

Aziraphale felt himself colour a little, or possibly more than a little, at that. Which was ridiculous. He’d made the decision and had gone through with it, without any problem, either, he might add. There was most certainly no reason to feel embarrassed or otherwise self-conscious about it at this stage of the proceedings.

Yes, it would’ve been much easier to give this to Crowley when the angel wouldn’t have to see his expression, that was true, but that shouldn’t mean he reacted like this when he did have to deal with the immediate fallout, as it were.

He should in any case have prepared himself for it being received poorly or just not as well as hoped, too, and he thought he had but apparently, he had been wrong. Or maybe this whole incident had sent him a little off kilter, which he thought was fair enough, all things considered.

Whichever the case, the fact of the matter was that he’d coloured at the comment and he didn’t know quite what to say to that. Not just the comment, either, but the interpreted implications underneath it.

Well, I, that is – “Oh, for goodness’ sake. “I wasn’t expecting anyone at all and most certainly not anyone from…well…upstairs.”

“Then why all these cakes? Not that – oh, shit. I didn’t mean that you couldn’t, that you weren’t – if they’re all for yourself, angel, that’s fine. Seriously fine. I didn’t mean to imply that – you can eat anything you want. As much as you want. Shit!”

Aziraphale blinked. Well, that was…unexpected, to say the least, and though he sensed there was something more lurking underneath the reaction, he couldn’t have said what that something was. Only that he didn’t like it particularly much and thought they might have to talk about it in detail, but at a later point.

They had time for that sort of thing now. Both in the general sense and an immediate, lock-down sense.

“That is very sweet and thoughtful of you, dear,” he said, avoiding any four-letter words while still delivering a bit of a jab, “and I wouldn’t for a moment think that you’d imply…that. Thank you for giving it thought immediately, too.”

“Ehm…you’re welcome.” It was Crowley’s turn to redden, something which Aziraphale always found impossibly endearing, the few occasions he’d been allowed to witness it. “But were you planning a feast, then? Because I can be the silent mouse, if you like.”

“Why on earth would I want you to be a silent rodent of any description?”

“If you wanted some quiet alone time with your baked goods, I didn’t think you’d want to have someone there disturbing you.”

_Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not leaving my sight for the foreseeable future now that I finally get to have you here again._

Outwardly, he managed to keep it at a huff. “As though I have ever said or even implied you disturb me.”

“You do when I ask what you’re reading.”

“That is entirely different and a separate manner, which you know perfectly well. Eating, however, is never something where you’ve disturbed me or anything remotely similar.” He softened his voice and further softened his demeanour by smiling. “I enjoy having you be with me in any capacity, and that most certainly includes eating.”

If Crowley had ceased to redden, it returned with something of a vengeance at that and so did Aziraphale’s when he realised what he’d admitted to.

On the other hand…well, why not? It was true, after all, and Crowley deserved to know. Outright and honestly. Just as with admitting he’d missed him. It was only adding another aspect to saying things he’d been feeling and meaning for a long time, possibly actual aeons. They had merely come to the surface now, that was all.

Astonishing what such a situation as a lockdown could bring out, wasn’t it?

He wouldn’t complain even if it had thrown him off-kilter more than once. Especially not if the alternative was not saying it.

Extending that to what he meant to say, he went on, “As a matter of fact, the one I have been baking for is…quite honestly, it is me, but it’s also…well, to be perfectly honest, I was baking them for you.”

Lifting eyes he hadn’t realised he’d lowered in the first place, he looked up at the other beside him, his smile a tiny bit wobbly but very firmly kept in place.

Only to find that Crowley looked…honestly, he looked gradually dumbfounded or perhaps astonished at what he’d just been told.

Was that a good thing or a bad one? Somewhere in between?

“All of them?” he asked, and he didn’t have to look around to indicate them. His voice did that all on its own.

“No. Just – just the one.”

“Then why all the rest?”

“Oh, do you have to ask?” Aziraphale exclaimed then collected himself. “My apologies, that was uncalled for. Of course you should ask. That is the way of things and so it should be. So it ought to be.”

He knew he was babbling slightly at this point or if not quite, then just on the verge of it and so he consciously tried to rein his thoughts and his mouth in a little.

"Angel?”

"I – I made all of them because I couldn’t decide.”

"Eh, that’s not an issue. Just take the one you like best and then I could – “

“You misunderstand,” Aziraphale interrupted, though gently. He did not regret embarking on all this, he did not. What he did do was lower his gaze a little again.

“I couldn’t decide which cake would be the best one to give to you. Which one you would be most likely to accept, let alone like, and so I ended up baking most of the ones I could think of in…”

He licked his lips and carried on. “In the hope that I could more easily make a decision once I had them all made. That there would be one I would know would be the best possible to send you.”

“Send me?”

“Well, yes. I could hardly wander through the streets now, could I? Even if it would be with a cake and to Mayfair.”

“Feels like there’s a song in that. Taking cake to Mayfair…does that sound like a broadsheet ballad to you?”

“More twentieth or possibly nineteenth century than anything – and you’re getting off-topic, Crowley.”

“Sorry.” The demon cocked his head and didn’t look particularly apologetic, it had to be said.

“Let me get this straight, though. You wanted to make me a cake, for whatever reason, and rather than just call me and ask ‘Crowley, what kind of cake would you prefer to get?’, you decide to go overboard full throttle and bake for the entire neighbourhood so that you could have one?

“Well, I – “When he put it like that, it did sound a little bit silly, he’d have to admit. Or possibly a lot silly. But there had been a reason. “I didn’t know that you would like one at all!”

Crowley’s expression very clearly said, ‘you have got to be kidding me’ even if there was a soupcon of warmth and softness running through it.

“And yet you still went through with making one? Not knowing whether I would – I can’t even finish that sentence. Crying out loud, angel, that’s…”

The blond hung his head a little “I know. It’s quite simply ridiculous and preposterous, I know, not to mention too much by half.”

That wasn’t what I was going to say, don’t put words in my mouth. It’s just…that’s…”

Crowley stopped again as soon as he got going, his face pulling into a grimace and then he went for round three of colouring, though possibly, it could count as a continuation of the second time.

He turned his head away a little and grimaced again.

“You can’t just do that kind of thing,” he finally managed to say. Aziraphale’s heart squeezed as it sank in his chest.

Oh.

Well, nothing for it but to be brave and accept the consequence of what he had wrought. How was it Crowley would put it? Face the orchestra? Yes, he believed it was.

“No, quite,” said he, with a smile that was just the tiniest bit tight and yet somehow wobbly. No matter, though. Just a bit of a hiccup on the way, that was all. Nothing that couldn’t be…forgotten with a bit of time and a bit of effort, on both their parts. “I see that now, and I do apologise for being so forward and presumptuous on top of – “

“That wasn’t what I was getting at either, bless it!” Crowley all but shouted. “Fucking bless it all.”

He reached a hand up to pull it through his hair, doing what Aziraphale had unconsciously dubbed his frustration dance, even though it was more of a few steps in a half-circle. It was complete with a frustrated growl.

The angel was uncertain of how to proceed at this point. Except he did have a cake that he couldn’t stand around holding forever. Well, technically he could, of course, though that was hardly the point. Things didn’t need worsening by holding the incriminating evidence, as it were.

Before he could see if there was a spot where he could put it, let alone actually set it down, it was taken from his hands and deposited, with something of slam. Then, as he tried to process that shift, he was in for another, even bigger one as he was wrapped up in a sentient blanket, more or less.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, more than a little thrown by the rather mixed signals he was receiving. “Crowley, what – “

"I am not leaving,” came the growled, muffled by the way the other had his face buried in a shirt and waistcoat. “You cannot make me, no matter what you do.”

"I’m not trying to make you leave, dear. Not now, not ever. I am sorry for what I did, but I would hope that we could work past it, in time, and – “

"You didn’t do anything wrong.” The vehemence was clear as a bell. Aziraphale veered between that making him annoyed or taking that annoyance away.

“Evidently, I did, otherwise you wouldn’t react like that.”

No!” Crowley pulled back enough to look at the angel, almost glaring at him. He did not, however, let go. “It wasn’t you. Well, it was, but not – I just – all I meant was that – oh, buggering bless it – you can’t do that sort of thing because I don’t know what to do with it!”

Oh.

Aziraphale watched Crowley stare at him then more or less rip his sunglasses off. Yellow eyes seemed to have taken over around half of his sclera.

“No. No, no, no, no. No! That wasn’t saying it was unwanted or disgusting or anything remotely like that. It was saying that I can’t handle that much kind consideration all in one go, especially not after being deprived of any kind of, of – “He waved a hand at the shop and Aziraphale as though he could get airborne with that alone – “of this for a long period when I’d just dare to get…”

"Of this?”

“Of you if you must know. Of you, angel.”

"Crowley…”

The demon looked down and away. “I know. It’s pathetic and ridiculous – “He was stopped by a hand on his cheek.

“That’s enough silly assumptions for one conversation, isn’t it?”

“Rich coming from you when you’d already done it.”

“I know. It’s celestial arrogance, I’m afraid.” That made Crowley look at him again. “I am sorry to have overwhelmed you so. That was not my intention. All I wanted was to show you that I think about you and care, even when we’re parted. There were probably better ways and easier ways as well – “

“What was it you just said about silly assumptions?”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh. “Excellent point. My own was that with a cake, I could…”

“No, I think I get it. It’s the effort that goes into it that makes the difference. The passion and compassion. You, essentially.”

“Yes. Precisely.” Aziraphale was just a little bit stunned though he realised he shouldn’t have been. “And I wanted to be sure I picked one that you would like to eat and suddenly I couldn’t seem to make my mind up which one that could possibly be.”

“You know it could’ve been any one of them?” Crowley asked and Aziraphale thrilled at seeing the hint of a smile on the other’s lips. It was like seeing the hint of a sunbeam after continuous gloom and rain for a fortnight.

“Sorry?”

“I would’ve been happy to get any of these. More than happy, honestly. They all look and smell amazing.”

But – but you never – you’re always so careful about what you bother with eating.”

Yeah?” Crowley frowned, evidently nonplussed. “That’s in restaurants. Have you any idea of how – no, that’d only put you off. Let’s just say that you’re not the only one keen on quality.”

“I never take you to subpar restaurants.” The astonishment kept the indignance at bay.

“No, but – nghk, it’s a bit complicated.” He managed to wave it away for later without moving his hand. “Point is that every time I do it, it’s when I’m with you and even then, it has to be the right time.”

“So what is different about these, then? They are just cakes.” Inside, though, Aziraphale would have to admit to a slight preening under the possibly unintended praise of that. It was only a very slight preening, though, and so he didn’t feel too embarrassed or ashamed to do it.

“No, they’re not. Not just cakes. These are all cakes _you’ve_ made – and it isn’t ethereal essence in it, either. I can tell. It was…that bite I just had? All I could taste were the pure ingredients well mixed. Nothing added, nothing changed and all exactly as it should be. That and you.”

Despite the internal preening, that puzzled him. “Me?”

“Yes, you, angel.”

How he managed to make that one word both sound like a gentle insult, a statement of fact and an endearment all at once, Aziraphale had no idea. He wasn’t about to complain, though.

“You make the difference.” There wasn’t even a grimace at something so sweet and almost sappy. “It was something you made, for me. All of it. All of them.”

He tried to pull the angel even closer to him, which was something of a task, given they were touching almost everywhere as it were. “So…I choose all of them.”

“All of them?”

When had he become an echo?

“But you could hardly eat all of them…”

Crowley mere raised an eyebrow at him then raised the other for good measure.

“Oh. Yes. I suppose that is a point.” Aziraphale took comfort in the fact that they were both quite spectacularly red in the face. “I…thank you very much, my dearest. For everything.”

"Nothing to thank me for.”

“Yes, there is.” So much more than he could find words for.

“Well, perhaps, then, you can thank me by finding a good bottle of wine and then we can test out all these delicious looking cakes.”

"I thought you said they were yours.”

“Well, I might be persuaded to share.”

Aziraphale found the smile on his face growing slowly but surely. “Is that so? By anyone?”

"No, I think it has to be someone…quite special.”

"Well, I believe that could just be arranged.”

They stayed like that for a while, just soaking in each other’s presence.

“Crowley dear?”

“Yes, angel?”

Aziraphale blinked to fight away tears. What could he be sad about now? “I’m beyond glad you are here.”

“Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the whole world, Aziraphale. I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Chistmas or whatever else you celebrate.  
> This has passed my self-imposed 10k max for a chapter but I couldn't find the time to post two chapters separately in time. So...Christmas gift, I suppose.  
> If there are any glaring mistakes, then I apologise but I've fought to get this (and another fic) out in time for Christmas (literally just finished the last few words before I put it up) so I'm...honestly, I'm beyond exhausted and feel a bit sick.
> 
> Feedback is as always loved and treasured, if the criticism is kept constructive.


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